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took Lovey about the same amount of time to iron a shirt as it has taken me to explain her style—she didn’t rush, but she was efficient. It took me most of an afternoon to iron one shirt. Even then I scorched the collar. But after a while, I got the hang of it. It was a proud moment when Lovey inspected a shirt I had ironed and said it wasn’t bad for a white boy.
    And Lovey was right—whatever success or failure I’ve had at whatever else I’ve tried to do, in my heartI hold this rock-solid fact: At least I can iron a shirt right. A shirt that could be put in the shirt-ironing hall of fame.
    In 1972 I went to Japan to live in a Buddhist monastery—to seek spiritual enlightenment. Unable to accommodate myself to the austere discipline of silent, sitting meditation, I was introduced to active meditation. Practiced alone and silently, this involved doing mundane tasks in a deliberate fashion so as to focus the mind. As the teacher explained, “Given careful attention, any activity may become a window on the universe and a doorway to understanding.”
    While raking the gravel paths in the monastery garden, I had an “oh, of course” experience. I realized I knew about this. This wasn’t Buddhism. It was Loveyism. Raking a gravel path right was just like ironing a shirt right.
    As has been the case so often in my life, I had gone to a great deal of trouble and expense to find out something I already knew.
    I recall the details of ironing a shirt because that’s still the way I do it.
    To this day, I usually tend my own shirts.
    Only because it gives me solitary pleasure.
    The kind we all enjoy alone when doing our nails or taking a bath or shaving or weeding in the garden or chopping wood or knitting or baking bread or hanging sheets out on a clothesline.
    Sure, sometimes these activities are just a matter of taking care of personal business or routine tasks. But as often as not, we use these times to reflect and talk to ourselves.
    Or meditate—even pray.
    Just because you aren’t on your knees in church or sitting still in a cramped position doesn’t mean you can’t be talking to God. Just because both you and God are busy doesn’t mean you can’t be in touch.
    Such times are the sacred part of the secret life.
    Such times keep my soul sane.
    When I asked my mother difficult questions, she would avoid complicated explanations by saying, “Someday you’ll understand.” Lovey taught me that while I was waiting for some understanding to come, I could iron a shirt.

W hile I was filling out a form this week, I wondered how many times in my life I have written down my name, place of birth, and address. It seems like such simple information, yet it has complications.
    NAME:_________________________________
    The first blank on your birth certificate and every other form and application you’ll see for the rest of your life. However, “What’s your name?” and “What do people call you?” are questions with shifting answers.
    My parents chose “Robert Edward Lee Fulghum” because my daddy was a Civil War buff and admired the general. But the registrar of births could only handlethree names. My folks settled for “Robert Lee Fulghum.” When I asked them, “Why Robert?” they couldn’t remember.
    “Bobby Lee” was what my parents usually called me.
    “Sonny boy.” My dad called me that, child and man, all his life. The day I went off to first grade and the evening I caught the train for college, and the night of my wedding and the day of the birth of my first child, it was the same: “Good luck, sonny boy.”
    “Beaver Bob,” by my running mates in the “Jolly Boys Club” in junior high—before the orthodontist had a go at my teeth.
    “Goodtime Bobby Fulghum.” After orthodontia, in high school.
    “Number 36,” my lucky number when I was in rodeos.
    “Big Bunny,” by Marilyn, my first love. Think what you want.
    “Fulghy.” In college, and even now by men friends at poker